


Christmas’ misery loves company

by egmon73



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A bit of sex, Greg is Sweet, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2018, Vulnerable Mycroft, charity - Freeform, not much, xmas fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-17 04:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16967388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egmon73/pseuds/egmon73
Summary: Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade both hate Christmas. It reminds them of what they would have liked to obtain from life and ... they could not achieve. There are too many feelings, too strong. Not to mention that they like each other, really *like*, but they do not have the courage to admit it even to themselves. The situation is so ridiculous that fate decides to take things in its hands and forces them to work together in a kitchen for charity during the month of December. Will an emotionally constipated British Government accept his own feelings, and an almost beaten-by-life Detective Inspector be patient enough?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is just some Xmas fluff with feelings and a sprinkle of sex (just a little). And there is a bonus: in the last chapter there is a fantastic art piece made by the awesome @cuchabra (but sorry, you have to wait till the end)!  
> This work has been betaed by the best of the betas: @lilynevin (brooklyn09).  
> ***  
> Never forget that English is not my mother tongue so I profusely apologise for the mistakes (my fault, my beta is the best!)

The chilly December wind was playing with Mycroft, whooshing by his coat, flapping it around his long legs and forcing responses from his body against his will. His auburn hair was in disarray, his cheeks red and his eyes watery. Normally, he would have fled from such a situation summoning one of his omnipresent sleek black cars, but not today. Today, he needed to walk swiftly from his flat to The Diogenes in order to escape from his thoughts, from those feelings that every damn December in the past few years have been clouding his brilliant mind. He hoped physical activity could distract him.

Stupid decision. The sheer amount of glossy and shiny – flashy! - Christmas decorations hung up along the streets conspired with the wind to rile him, keeping the much desired quietness at bay. Not to mention the people, a crowd – no - a mob, a mass of humans who seemed to find pleasure in being overwhelmingly cheerful for no apparent reason. They were surrounding him, approaching from all directions, bumping into him, touching his body, even smiling at him, not understanding that he wanted to be left alone. It was definitely too much to ask. Goldfish.

His ears were assaulted as well by loud Christmas carols blasting at full volume from shops and street boots selling junk, Christmas trash.

An overly sweet and burning smell was lingering in the air.

Mycroft was going into full sensory overload and he felt the stinging needles in his temples signalling the onset of a rather painful migraine, which forced him to slow down his pace. This year was not going to be better than the previous ones, he realized. He intensely wished that he could simply sleep until Christmas time was over, however Mycroft knew that miracles did not exist, or at least he never deserved one. He looked around, taking it all in, and his heart ached; he did not belong in that. Unfortunately, he could not get rid of the thought that, for the 6th Christmas in a row, he was engulfed in a bout of maudlin self-pity. He was badly longing to belong to somewhere, or to someone. _Lord almighty!_ Mycroft decided to bury himself in negotiations for the whole Christmas period.

***

Greg was quickly trotting towards the Met. It was not early, at least not as early as he usually went to the office, but last night he arrived home very late, oh well, he arrived at home in the early morning, and he needed at least a few hours of sleep after a tiring case. London was in full Christmas swing. Although it was just the beginning of December, shops were full of customers and he could already spot a couple of Santa Claus distributing balloons and candies to kids. He suddenly heard a sharp cry and saw a balloon slowly lifting towards the sky, a desperate child running for it not watching the traffic, and the child's mother chasing after him, eyes widened with worry, shouting “Andrew! Andrew! ". Greg did not think twice. He deviated from his path, and with two long strides pushed the boy back to safety and with a little jump caught the flying toy.  He returned the balloon to the lawful owner with a smile. The kid was looking at him with adoration, although tears were present in his eyes due to the experienced fear, and Greg reassured him, kindly ruffling his hair. His mother reached them and smiled, thanking him profusely. After some small talk, Greg realized that the woman was flirting with him and ended the conversation cordially. He noted no wedding ring on her finger. Greg politely smiled and left, heading towards his office.

Greg's previous smile quickly disappeared. He hated Christmas and the older he got, the more he could not stand it. He had always wished to have someone special in his life, someone to cherish, someone to take care of, someone to spend festivities together. Christmas reminded him of his failure. He could still have some good night shag, but it was not what he was looking for and each time he tried one, it left him even more emotionally vulnerable than before. This year, he should simply bury himself in work and let the ones with family enjoy Christmas.

Fate had different plans.

***

“Alicia, is this some kind of festivity-related joke? Because if it is, I assure you, I fail to discern the humour in it.” Mycroft was sitting at his desk, one eyebrow lifted in typical Holmesian expression which would have made the most ruthless of secret agents squirm, but had substantially no effect on the small blond woman standing in front of him.

Lady Smallwood smiled patiently. “I assure you, Mycroft, it is not. It is an advice from Her Majesty herself, and not even a subtle one.”

Mycroft’s second brow also moved upwards in disbelief.

Alicia kept the smile on her face and calmly continued. “Mycroft, Her Majesty is aware of the challenging and precarious situation the Government is in. The trust in politicians by the British people is rapidly declining and the overall image of the Government is badly suffering. She recommended that everyone who has some spare time during these festivities should involve himself or herself in some charitable activity. You did not ask for holiday even on Christmas Day, so you do not have even the faintest of excuse. I do not think there is a better candidate than you. We will all participate somehow, but I believe that your contribution would be very welcome.”

Mycroft let the disgust show in his features. “I will donate a significant sum of money.”

Lady Smallwood shook her head. “This is not the meaning of the request, and you know it. It should be a visible effort, where you in person are involved. I have here a list of activities you can join.” A sheet of paper was slowly slid towards Mycroft, who was glaring at it with such intensity that Alicia started to think it might spontaneously combust.

Assured that Mycroft understood what he was supposed to do, Alicia left the room while Mycroft was studying the list intently, cringing his nose.

Serving evening meals to the homeless at the St Bart’s shelter (15 evenings)

_Lord, never. All these people asking me to perform silly tasks, others even touching me…_

Cleaning the premises of the foster home in Central London (6 full days)

_Cleaning with these smelly chemical products and triggering all sort of rashes on my skin? Lord…_

Organizing the laboratory and the St James hospital

_Sure, with my lack of physical prowess, lifting heavy boxes, sweating, and being constantly teased by the other participants._

Mycroft was losing all hope, scrolling the list with his eyes. Then he stopped at one item.

Preparing meals for residents at the veteran retirement home (16 evenings)

The Government official honestly liked cooking. He had little time for indulging in this hobby of his, but when he had a day off (most of the time forced onto him due to serious continuous overwork) he indulged in it. Working in a kitchen also meant dealing with few people in a closed, sort of protected, environment. No excessive physical strength or constant sweat were needed. The first meeting was that evening and Mycroft texted Anthea to clear his schedule after 6 p.m. and arrange transport.

***

“Detective Inspector, I am sorry, but we need to improve the image of the Met in front of the tax payers.”

Uncomfortably sitting in his boss’ office, Greg was trying to understand why he had been summoned without warning for something that did not seem to be an important murder-related case. He did not get exactly what his boss was ranting about. Yes, the public was a bit annoyed about the amount of taxes paid and the increasing level of violence in the city - crime was sky rocketing. How could he do more with an understaffed department whose members were working more than 10 hours a day, himself included?

“Do you have any hobbies, Lestrade?”

Greg tried to refocus his attention on his boss, who was still talking nonsense in his opinion. Hobbies. Why on Earth was his boss inquiring about his hobbies?

“Hobbies, Sir?” he managed to articulate.

“Yes, hobbies, you know? Something useful. Can you …I don’t know, repair cars, fix computers … do you have any medical training, plumbing knowledge, or something similar that we can show off?”

Greg started thinking about an answer. He was working close to 60 hours per week. There was not really a lot of time for hobbies in his life. He was a Detective Inspector, for God’s sake. He needed to come up with an answer.

“Uhm….I am not bad with motorbikes. I had one, years ago. I repaired most of it and…. And I can cook. I had many jobs before joining the Met and being a scullion was one of those, and I got the passion from there... I can’t be a cook in a Michelin star restaurant, but I can do a reasonable job and….”

“Perfect!” his boss shouted, slamming his palm on the surface of the desk. “That’s it, Lestrade. Show off your skills and the department will be always grateful to you. Tonight, 6.30 p.m., show up at the veteran retirement home, the address is on this sheet.” His boss threw the paper at him. “Don’t disappoint me,” his boss added, and Greg got that the conversation was over. 

***


	2. Chapter 2

Greg was panting, running down the street in the rain to find the damn place. Retirement home for  veterans. Yeah. Plenty of information to find it, it seemed. All houses on the street looked identical and, in the darkness of the evening, the street numbers were impossible to discern. Moreover, he was late, of course he was late: he had a body to retrieve from the Thames, a job to do. He could still hear Sally’s stream of curses when he told her to continue digging in the mud on her own because he had to leave to perform some unspecified charity activity. 

An expensive armoured black car caught his eye and forced him out of his reverie. Why on Earth was a government car present on such a street? Lestrade froze on the spot when he realized who was exiting the car. A tall, slim, elegant figure in a three-piece suit wrapped in a heavy coat quickly strode across the street and approached an entrance door. Mycroft Holmes. Greg’s heart skipped a beat when he noticed that on top of the door, written in semi-illegible letters, was “Care Home of the Royal British Legion”. Where he was headed too.

Greg looked at himself, at his shoes crusted with mud and his hair soaked by the rain, and sniffed the not so subtle smell of sweat that was dissipating from his person. He then looked back at Holmes senior, who in the meantime had rang a bell. Sharp stings of humiliation started to bother him while he was taking in the difference, as if he had never been aware of it. He had met Mycroft many years ago, when Sherlock was still a junkie killing himself slowly from overdose to overdose.  They developed a strange friendship, first based on the common interest of taking care of the world's only consulting detective and then on mutual respect. Hell, he liked the man. He liked the absolute devotion he had for his family no matter what, no matter how badly they treated him. Greg has been amazed by his intelligence, which was not flaunted like Sherlock’s. It was an even superior level of genius that was mesmerizing in depth and accuracy. The fact that the government official also had long freckled limbs wrapped in elegant clothes did not disturb either. Yes, the man was in another league and it did not matter whether Greg had developed a soft spot for him, nothing was ever going to happen between them. The difference in social status, elegance, intelligence and money was just too big to ignore.

Why the man was there was a mystery, for sure he was not abasing himself so low to… cook for charity? He followed Mycroft inside the building,  leaving a trace of muddy steps on the floor.

While walking down the hallway, Greg looked around. The place smelled of disinfectant and the wall needed repainting, but overall it was clean and well kept. He heard some muffled voices at the end of the hall, possibly from a room where some light was filtering under a closed door. One of the voices was unmistakably Mycroft’s baritone, the others were unknown. Greg approached with caution and knocked at the door. All voices quieted and, after few seconds, a man answered: “Yes, please, come in. "

Greg opened the door and entered into a big kitchen, fully equipped with all possible utensils and tools. In the center of the kitchen three men were standing, engaged  in what seemed to be an animated conversation.

A corpulent dark haired and bearded man greeted him with an open smile. “Are you the reinforcements from the police?”

Greg could not avoid smiling as well and moved into the room, extending his arm to shake hands. “Greg Lestrade at your service, Sir.”

A joyful laugh erupted from the man while he took the proffered hand and shook it with vigor. “Welcome to this crazy retirement home, man, I am Paul.” Paul patted his belly, indicating that it was his defining portion. “So glad you could make it. As I was telling your mate here,” and he pointed at Mycroft as if it was common practice to point at the Government himself, “the old chaps we have here are eager to place their orders! They might not have teeth, but they have a wild fantasy and appetite for sure!”

Mycroft Holmes was standing there, looking prim and proper as usual, but also with a bewildered look on his face. He was darting his eyes from Lestrade, as if he was a ghost, to Paul and back.

“So…” Paul continued, as if no man in a pinstriped three-piece suit was dissecting him with his stare, “our jolly residents have dietary requirements as well. Most of them are diabetics. No hard food because all their teeth are fake. Dinner time is no later than 6.30 p.m. There are 22 men, ages 78 to 92. They know that every other evening till Christmas you will be cooking for them and they can select a dish. They are literally jumping up and down from the excitement. Our doctor will check whether their daily choice is appropriate and is not in conflict with their medications, and if it passes his test then… you know what you have to do! Send us the list of ingredients the day before and we will do the shopping.” 

Lestrade glanced around the kitchen. It looked clean and well equipped, as he noticed at the beginning. He could work in it. Paul’s merriment was definitely contagious so he even forgot the initial shock he felt seeing Mycroft there. “But it is already 6.30 p.m. and for sure we cannot be expected to cook tonight!” Lestrade realized.

Paul’s grin grew even wider. “Of course not, the first dinner is going to be tomorrow. We just stuffed the fridge with everything we thought you might need. Just help yourself. No request for this first one, just surprise them and be ready for the evenings that follow.” Then he winked, Lestrade could swear. Paul openly winked at him. With a painful realization, he remembered the last time he flirted with a man so long ago…

Paul patted the shoulder of the other corpulent man with sparse blond hair standing next to him. “John, let’s go, the guys need to acclimate themselves and get ready for the cooking marathon…” John kept silent, probably scared by Mycroft’s look, and let himself be led by Paul out of the room.

Greg and Mycroft were left alone, an embarrassing silence between them. Before the situation became too awkward, Greg started shambling around the kitchen, Mycroft’s gaze following him. “So, uhm, well, it seems that we both share the same Christmas destiny. How is it possible that the British Government has been forced to come here? Sherlock’s prank?” Greg curiously mumbled.

Mycroft looked utterly annoyed. “If you want to know the truth, Her Majesty Herself suggested my involvement in this activity.”

Greg’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Her Majesty?” he sputtered. All of a sudden, Greg again felt very conscious of his disheveled appearance.

“The earlier we start the assigned task, Detective Inspector, the earlier we finish,” Mycroft silenced him.

“OK, ok, Mycroft, no need to scold me. I was just shocked when I saw you, I could not believe we were suffering the same fate. In addition, it is Greg. We have been meeting every fortnight since I do not know how many years, we can avoid formalities, in particular because it seems that we are forced to work together in the same place for a while now.” Greg always felt stupid in front of Mycroft and he hated it. The Government official was able to make the worst of him emerge, as if he wanted to underline the existing differences in every aspect of their lives. No need for that, Greg knew his place. He was an aging, divorced copper, nothing more.  _Get a grip on yourself, Lestrade. You are over 50, you're not a teenager anymore._ The elder Holmes remained aloof and silent. He however had a point. They needed to understand how to organize themselves so that a dinner for 22 persons could be ready every second day at 6.30 p.m., taking into account their tight working schedule. He for sure could not leave the office early enough to start cooking. They'd have to do it the evening before. 

“So, any thoughts about how we should do this?” Greg voiced his concerns.

Mycroft looked at the ceiling and got even more rigid, if possible. “Neither of us can be available in the early afternoon to start preparing such a meal for so many people. I foresee that our involvement has to be extended to every evening, those of the actual dinners and the others for the preparation.” Mycroft was not looking at him.

“I agree, and I was thinking the same,” Greg replied. “So,” he continued, not willing to go back to the uncomfortable atmosphere of before, “shall we look at what the kitchen has to offer and make some plans?”

Mycroft nodded. They washed their hands and started opening the fridge and the cupboards around them, looking for food and for utensils. “Oh, pumpkins! I love pumpkin. Onions as well,” Greg almost yelled with excitement. “If we have a bit of curry, what do you think about a pumpkin soup?” Greg did not even wait for Mycroft’s answer. “And cauliflower! With some good béchamel sauce on it, it will revive even a man on his death bed!” 

Taking Greg by surprise, Mycroft joined in: “And grilled chicken breast already pre-cut in small pieces may be the completion of a healthy light evening meal.” Greg smiled in approval.

Tension slowly faded away while they started preparing the meal for the next day. They both were surprised by the dexterity of the other. They had no clue that the other man was almost professional in the kitchen, needing no help from books to prepare albeit simple dishes. Greg was looking at Mycroft in awe. He never saw the Government Official so informal, his jacket tossed on a nearby chair and his sleeves rolled up. Yes, it was almost ridiculous to see a man in a three-piece suit chopping vegetables

Greg enjoyed cooking, it helped him to unwind after a tough case. Here, it was even better because he could discreetly watch his graceful cooking partner, whose focus was directed on the food. He would have never believed that potatoes could be cut in cubes of the same size. Greg smiled. The redhead probably had no clue that he looked fucking adorable.

While everything was cooking, they started cleaning all the tools they had used and the surfaces of the workbench. After the food cooled, it would be stored in the fridge to be warmed up again the following evening. They settled in an amicable rhythm, smooth and easy. They had been working together for several years, although generally it was Mycroft ordering and Greg executing. It was nice to have a change once in a while.

They tasted the respective dishes and were both satisfied. They switched off the stove and looked at each other. “I think we should ask Paul to put everything in the fridge when it has cooled enough. It is 10 p.m. I think we have worked enough for today,” Greg said matter of fact.

Mycroft cocked his head and seemed not to object. He took his mobile and started typing.

“Are you summoning your driver?” Greg asked.

“I am,” Mycroft replied. “As you said, it is rather late.”

“It is December, Mycroft, and it is true that it is late, but not that late. I am sure that it will take less time with the tube than with a car. You could join us mortals and take public transport.” Greg sported a cheeky grin.

Mycroft did not respond. Greg worried a bit, he thought he had seen a flash of panic in Mycroft’s eyes. It made no sense, as posh as the elder Holmes could be. He had simply proposed to take the tube, a little annoyance at worst, nothing to promote panic. The relaxed expression Mycroft had while they were cooking disappeared. His grey eyes hardened along with his countenance, as if Mycroft’s defenses were fully raised. Greg felt a punch landing in his stomach.

“Detective Inspector, please show me the way then,” Mycroft commanded in an authoritative tone. Engulfed in sadness, Greg did not reply. He wrote a note to Paul asking him to put the pots in the fridge and left the building, Mycroft in tow. On their walk to the tube station, they encountered throngs of cheerful people and cars honking and trying to move along. Mycroft remained silent and stared accusingly at all the people passing by.

“Not posh enough for you, is it?” Lestrade teased.

Lestade would have bet he saw a flash of fear in Mycroft’s eyes again. How strange, he was only teasing a bit. He could understand that Mycroft did not like to mingle with people. However, he had the right to tell him that he was privileged to have a driver and not everyone had one.  He should not rub his nose in it.

Blue-grey eyes turned to shark steel and Mycroft replied, “Continue to lead the way, Detective Inspector.”

Greg felt guilty and uncomfortable. This was not exactly what he wanted to achieve. They had a nice evening and he saw a relaxed Mycroft cooking. It was one of the best sights he had ever seen, and he did not want to fuck it up. _He and his damn mouth! Why did the Holmeses have to take everything so damn seriously and not have a laugh here and there?_ Well, now he had to escort a Holmes home through the perils and hazards of the tube.

“Give me your address, I’ll check where you have to get off,” Greg said, trying to lighten the mood. Mycroft was as tense as a string on a violin and he seemed to have tremors the more the crowd surrounded them. The tube was indeed tightly packed and Mycroft was holding the supporting pole as if his life depended on it. Christmas Carols at full volume started to blast from the Bluetooth speaker of one of the nearby passengers. Greg saw Mycroft cringe, his shoulders tense and his neck retract between them. Greg started to seriously worry.

Two more stops and then they would arrive at Mycroft’s station. Greg wanted to comfort the man and say that he only had to endure it for few more minutes when Mycroft bolted out of the train as soon as the door opened at the next stop. Frozen in disbelief for a few seconds, Greg quickly regained awareness and ran after the Government official who was running out of the station, bumping into people on his way. Greg followed and shouted apologies to everyone, but he did not slow down. He saw Mycroft turn into a small alley, stopping against a wall and breathing hard.

Greg decelerated and approached the redhead slowly. He did not want to scare the man more than he already was. He had no clue what had happened, but it must have been something serious to generate this reaction from the usually aloof Holmes.  He made himself visible in front of the redhead and gently murmured “Mycroft, are you ok?”

Mycroft raised his gaze. Gentle worried brown eyes were looking at him with apprehension. Mycroft felt his cheeks getting hot and the sting of tears in his eyes. He had never felt so ashamed. Of all men, Gregory Lestrade had to learn about his weakness and ineptitude. His heart started to beat even faster, if possible. He wanted to bolt, to run away again, to find comfort and shelter in his quiet dimly-lit flat. A warm hand resting on his biceps stopped him. Again, those warm eyes were looking at him.

“Mycroft, please breathe.”

Mycroft did. Slowly, the soothing silence that fell between them and the isolation of the small deserted alley allowed Mycroft to focus on his breathing and on the warmth radiating from the man in front of him. The Christmas noises and lights became a faraway background, not hurting his brain as they did before. His headache was subsiding to a reasonable level of pain.

Lestrade, observant as ever, noticed the change in his posture and spoke again. “We can grab a cab and I can take you home, come with me, Mycroft. Slowly.” Mycroft did not really want to move from there and again face the chaos, but he knew he had to. He did not want to make a fool of himself even more. As if his brain was surrounded by fog, he let himself be guided towards the main street, where the Detective Inspector managed to get the attention of a cab pretty quickly. He was gently encouraged inside and he heard himself recite his address to the taxi driver.

Luckily, inside the taxi, the sounds and lights from the outside were muffled and Mycroft felt himself regaining his composure and clearing his brain. They arrived at his flat and he managed to exit the taxi without being prompted or helped. _Good_ , he was getting back to his cold self.

He started to walk up the stairs towards the entrance door of his building when he heard Lestrade’s voice. He almost forgot the man. Today was definitely a humiliating day. How could he forget even basic manners and not thank or say goodbye to the kind man who took care of him without complaining or teasing?

“Mycroft?” Lestrade’s voice was tentative.

“I apologize, Detective Inspector. I was lost in my thoughts. Thank you for your kindness and I hope you can forget what has happened today. I assure you, it is not something I wish to share with the public. I detest crowds and …” Lestrade interrupted him by raising a hand.

“I’m sorry, Mycroft. I should have understood that there were reasons behind your reluctance to take the tube. I shouldn’t have pushed you. And do not worry about your privacy, I swear I won’t say a word. There is nothing to say, by the way. Will I see you tomorrow?”

Mycroft had no idea why the DI looked almost hopeful to see him again. After the debacle of today, he had been sure the DI would not want to have anything to do with him. He must have looked practically insane.

“We are both bound to this commitment, Lestrade, so I fear that we will see each other every evening till Christmas.” He was sure the detective was going to look appalled. He was expecting everything but the smile his statement received. The brown eyes almost sparkled with joy.

“See you tomorrow, then!” Lestrade merrily stated and quickly disappeared in the Christmas confusion.

Mycroft blinked a couple of times, not finding logic in what had happened. He quickly entered his flat and closed the door to keep the world outside at least for the night. He needed to regain his balance in order to be functional tomorrow and hoped he would not be overwhelmed again. 

 

 

 

 


End file.
